Plot, what plot?
by SnowSybaris
Summary: Arthur met him once, in a porn shop. And then the next day in the office. Slash, PWP. Arthur/Eames


Prompt at kinkmeme: Arthur and Eames meet at an Adult Bookstore/Porn Shop. Arthur is buying a dildo/vibrator and Eames can't help but offer his services instead of the toy. Arthur is like "Do I look like the kind of guy who takes home men I meet at the porn store? No." But Eames definitely makes an impression, Arthur totally gets off imagining Eames when using the toy (MAYBE HE EVEN NAMES IT AFTER HIM?). They meet again somewhere much more conventional and Arthur is all blushing cause he totally wanked off to Eames the night before. This time he can't say no to Eames' propositions, and it's true, the real Eames is much more satisfying then a toy substitute.

_(sigh) First day back at dorm. So much for being an upstanding student._

* * *

"New customer, right? Haven't seen you around."

Arthur's already holding himself stiffly, his shoulders vibrating with embarrassed tension as he swivels around to face the man talking to him. There's no one in this aisle but them.

He knows several things about this person already. Firstly, he frequents this shop often, which means- he's obviously gay, and obviously a, a, pervert (Arthur staunchly ignores the fact that he's here, because this is just _one time_, it's not like it was going to become a habit- a man should be allowed to have some fun, after all), second, the fact that he's willing to address someone in this store so casually means he's not _embarrassed _to be in this store like Arthur is. Third, he has a British accent, which is turning Arthur on. Fourth- so is everything else about him.

Arthur coughs. "No." he says precisely, trying to radiate _completely heterosexual male doing a favor for an incapacitated friend_. He's done it before, when he worked up the nerve to hit a bar and someone actually _hit back on him_. The experience had so unnerved him that he'd never gone back, but he'd come here. Because, well. He had to get off somehow.

He was aware that he was blushing, and the other man's eyebrows were climbing higher on his face.

"I'm- here to-" he stumbles out, thinking of automatically following up with _purchase for a friend_, or something like that, but the man has a grin on his face and he has a hand up, wagging a finger at him, and he can't help but track it. The man's hand is broad, tanned, and there are calluses on his palms, and the nails are square.

"Let me guess." he says, and his accent is exquisite. He's leaning on a shelf of cock rings, and Arthur presses his lips together in his sternest expression of disapproval, but he knows his face is red. "Your girlfriend, she has a fetish? You have a gay roommate who has a broken leg. No, wait, you're too old for school- are you? Sorry if you aren't. Never mind. Or, you might have a dog who just won't quit humping your leg-"

"Won't quit _hu_-" Arthur starts, and shuts his mouth.

"Darling." the man says fondly, and outstretches his hand. It was going to be warm and rough but soft in the palm, dry. Arthur swallows, doesn't take it, and stares at the man's mouth. And then he switches to the eyes, realizes it was a mistake, and looks a the shelf of cock rings again.

"I'm just here to buy something." he says firmly.

The man does not put down his hand, but raises his eyebrows. Arthur tries not to look at his eyebrows, either, because they are too near his eyes, which are a shade of blue-gray. He's usually not this nervous, but he's hypertense right now. He keeps thinking, _what if someone I know walks into this shop and sees me talking to this man and gets the complete wrong idea, oh my god, oh my god. _"Of course you're here to buy something. It's a store."

"I know that." Arthur says, and is about to continue with something like _I'll be on my way now_, in his frostiest tone, but instead his mouth says, completely without his permission, "I'm not gay."

They both blink.

Arthur sees no alternative but to turn around and walk quickly down the aisle. He can feel the blush in his collarbones, and his stomach is sort of lurching with something like dread. But not quite.

He'd just intended to get- something. He'd been vaguely thinking about a vibrator, but then he realizes that they were on the other side of the store, and there was a risk of running into the Brit again. He thought of ducking out of the back door, but he thinks of coming back to this place _a second time _and cannot condone it. Once is quite enough. So he doubles around, going the long way, being exceedingly cautious, trying to use the quiet sides of his shoes to walk-

When the man steps into his way, his stride utterly casual, his hands stuck in his pockets, his expression affable.

"I'm busy." Arthur says. Heatedly.

"Quintessential closet." the man said. "Look, I promise that you can still shake my hand and not be queer." Then he proffers his hand again.

Arthur stares at it, feeling oddly like he's drunk. He takes it, a light, tentative grip, like he's holding a fish. The man shakes, a firm handshake that would have Arthur convinced that he was a reliable man had they met in the office. His gaze is intent but friendly, but there's something- something about the quirk in his mouth, the tilt of his face, and the boldness of the way he grips his hand, that just screams-

"I'm Eames," he's saying, and Arthur jerks back, feeling himself blushing again. Good god, he's getting tired of his bloodflow.

"Arthur," he whispers out. "And I- really must hurry."

"You're looking for, what." Eames says, craning his head to look behind him, where Arthur was heading. "Vibrators? Dildos?"

Arthur's not used to people saying those words in broad daylight. He feels like looking around to see if anyone's heard them talking, but stops himself. This is ridiculous. "Yes." he says tightly, and shifts his body to the right, trying to look poised and busy, and most of all, heterosexual. He's not sure he's succeeding.

"Sure you don't want something organic instead?" the man, Eames says, and with the accent and the content and his oddly blurred brain, it takes him a few seconds to realize he's being propositioned. Crudely. He can feel his mouth opening, moving from a tight, scandalized line to a loose, scandalized O. (Arthur's very good at looking scandalized, many people have assured him. He's sure he's pulling this off perfectly.) "I have a place a few blocks down-"

"_No_." Arthur says, entirely red now. "No, no thanks, I'll just- be on my way. Now. Thank you."

But the man accompanies him to the dildo section, and Arthur is completely unable to stop him as he points out the good ones, the bad ones, and why this one, you know, it had those ridges there, see- they feel good, but if you're an amateur, you might want to go for an entire set, work your way up. And this one's personally my favorite, but they only come in- what, you don't like pink? I see, you don't like pink. Can I interest you in this snake-headed green one?

Arthur has time to say, _I like black_, before a kind of evil smile spreads over that handsome face and he's dragged off to a room that says, _Dungeons_. He yanks himself back just in time.

"I'm looking for something- _tame_, okay?" he sputters, and realizes that he's made a mistake, because he never meant to actually acknowledge to himself that he was _looking_ for anything in the first place.

He comes away with a plain black unadventurous- what Eames calls a _buttplug_, but he's sure there's a professional, less- _bawdy_ term for it, and he's going to look it up and be able to think of it without blushing. But.

Eames leans against the wall as Arthur pays for the- thing, trying not to look at anything in particular. "You know," he's saying, nonchalantly, "it's really- kind of, unsafe and all, or kind of pathetic, to have your first time be a _toy_, because that's just- sad, darling, that's just sad."

Arthur ignores him- and his attempt to tuck a phone number into his suit pocket- and drives away like hell's angels are after him.

* * *

He's never done this before, and locks all the doors and draws all the blinds before stripping. It's stupid, because he lives in an apartment, and the sun has set, but- still. He turns off the lights, too, because he just might meet his own eyes in the mirror and he doesn't think he's up to it.

The difficult thing about it, he discovers, is that in the darkness it's very easy to- imagine. Things. For instance, as he takes off his trousers with shaking hands, he can just about imagine that those hands aren't his, and that it's someone else's unfamiliar hand he's grazing against. Square, tanned, ruthlessly cut fingernails, calluses against his pelvis as he bucks forth-

This is ridiculous.

He grips the- _plug_, fine, it's a buttplug, he can say it without blushing, he's not fourteen. The plastic feels unfamiliar and cool under his fingers, and impossibly thick, how could it ever go in-

He grits his teeth, and his blood pumps in his ear as he reaches back and pushes in with a finger.

Eames says in his ear, _it's kind of pathetic, to have your first time be a toy, because that's just- sad, darling, that's just sad._

"Screw you." Arthur mutters aloud, and pushes in a second finger. It- hurts, a little, but after a while it eases. It feels bizarre, doing this, but he's not going to stop. He shifts, on his knees, spreading wider, bringing his center of balance closer to the ground. He imagines someone helping, aiding the process along by putting a warm hand on his thigh and nudging it aside-

_Bend down a little_, and there are lips on his ear, no teeth, just lips, and he shudders. He's nowhere near coming, not even close, but there's a heat building up, spine and groin. He bends, and it's easier, his fingers sliding in and out, aided by the lubricant Eames had slapped down on the counter, _he'd be needing that too_, and oh- _Eames-_

"_God_!" he bites out, voice raw, because there's- he just hit something, just almost out of reach, and he has to plunge down to knuckle-depth to reach it again. "Ohmygod."

Eames is laughing at him, sitting in front of him, and he's pushing him back, guiding his hand towards the plug. Not so hasty, he says, go for three fingers before you try, that's right- go in-

He obeys, and his fingers feel awkward now, and he tries clenching experimentally, and hot muscle tightens around his fingers. _I could do that to Eames' cock_, he thinks, and chokes a little. His idiot dick stands to attention, but he ignores it, almost furious with himself now. He twists his fingers inside himself, almost punishingly, but it feels- oh god, it doesn't feel like his own hand at all, and he can swear-

"Oh _please_." he moans, and swears he can feel an amused blue-gray gaze resting between his shoulderblades. "Please- please-"

It feels good to say those words, and he can't stop himself, he pulls out his fingers with a small pop- it hurts, but it's okay, and guides the thing in. The head presses, too blunt, too thick, at his entrance, but he presses it in, thinking of Eames tossing it into the air, a smile on his face, _this one's good for beginners, but I swear, so's a live human being-_

"_Eames_," he said raggedly, and he's beyond embarrassment now, he wants _insidenowplease_, and the thing slides in. He muffles a groan and _wants_, and he reaches around with one hand to grasp at his cock, his finger still slick with the lube Eames gave him. It vaguely smells like butter, something sweet-

He clenches around the buttplug, and can swear he hears a choked little gasp in his ear, and Eames is saying, _you damned tease_, laughing breathlessly into his ear before playfully arching in, just a little movement that makes his cock brush against-

Oh-oh-

"Fuck." he says, and it feels like two voices, Eames is thrusting inside him, a fantasy aided by the fact that his hand just went numb. He spreads his thighs more, his arse almost brushing the sheets, and he's coming, so fast it's not even funny, and he can hear a muttered string of accented curses as Eames-

Does not come. Because it's just plastic.

He collapses against his pillow, arse stuck in the air. He probably looks obscene, but he thinks Eames would have liked it, if he were here. He remembers slapping that hand away as it tried to put a piece of paper inside his pocket, and half-wishes he hadn't.

This is so stupid, he thinks, and reaches behind him to pull it out- he's starting to ache- but doesn't. He presses his face into the pillow instead, thinking of walking into the office tomorrow and aching between his legs like hell, and feels something sweet unfurl in his abdomen. They'd never know, it'd just be his secret- a little one- what he did today, something beyond the pale.

He goes to sleep, the plug still jammed up his arse, and dreams of broad tanned hands pushing down on his hips and low chuckles.

* * *

"No." Arthur says.

Eames isn't even bothering to hide his smile, a slow, secret, delighted affair involving much a lot of white, slightly crooked teeth and full lips. Fuck. He can't quite look away.

Cobb's looking between them, looking puzzled. "Something wrong?"

"No." Arthur repeats, and goes red again. His arse aches. He just took out the toy this morning, two hours ago, in fact, and he can't stop remembering the fact that he pretended he was being fucked by this man last night. This is simply- ludicrous. "Cobb, I."

They both wait for him to go on, but Arthur is unable to do so. Eames' eyes are wide with amusement, like he's drinking this scene in. He probably is.

"Well then," Eames says, turning towards him. He's wearing a suit. A goddamn suit. Arthur can't forget yesterday, a goddamn leather jacket thrown over a goddamn wifebeater, tattoos visible both on skin and underneath thin cotton. He could die. He looks crisp now, his hair combed back, his face shaved, his stiff collar buttoned up to the throat. He's wearing an _Arthur_ expression, a slight hint of _oh I am scandalized_ and a little prudishness in the way he sticks up his nose.

For heaven's sake.

"Nice to meet you." Arthur says, one straight businessman to another, offering his hand, putting on his blandest face. "Mr- I didn't catch your name." (As if he hadn't been moaning it into his sheets last night. No.)

"Eames." the man says. His accent is still British, but it's been altered slightly. Now it's one hundred percent BBC, oozing poshness and money and tweed. He looks at his hand, just like Arthur looked at his last evening, and raises his eyebrows a little. Arthur bristles, and puts it down again. (Cobb is watching this exchange with a bewildered look.) "Nice to meet you."

His voice is stiff, cold, but there's a little quirk in his mouth that tells Arthur he's tittering inside, the big prat. Arthur swallows his outrage, tries not to get his trousers tented with the look of him, the crisp tailored lines of his suit, that slightly off-center tie (he longs to reach out- fix it, because it's a beautiful tie, it really is) and the calm, laughing gaze on him. Damn him, anyway.

"I think- my office?" Arthur says, and then blushes deeply. Eames cracks a smile. Cobb's eyebrows are rising, and Arthur sends him a cool stare, his cheeks hot.

Cobb rearranges the line of his mouth in a way that tells Arthur he's figured everything out and is humoring him, and walks off. He can't tell if that slight squint Cobb gave him was a wink or not.

They go. Eames looks at him without any caution now Cobb's gone, taking in the way Arthur's clearly struggling to walk normally. He smiles, his eyes bright with laughter. "So," he says.

Dear god, he's going to make conversation. No. Just no. Arthur walks more swiftly, aware that the pace is accentuating the way he's- let's face it- waddling. There is a low, choked sound that might have been a stifled laugh. Arthur growls, and holds open his office door. "In." he says.

He slammed the door behind. "What, yesterday." he mutters, unable to articulate what should come in between those two words- even the innocuous 'happened' seems to dry on his tongue. "It would be completely unprofessional to. Talk. About it here. Or laugh. We're here to do our jobs, and we will not ever- speak- about- my colleagues do not-"

"Absolutely not." Eames says, and leans over and kisses him.

Arthur opens his mouth to utter some outraged statement, and is baffled when his body moves forward of his own volition and molds itself to Eames' crisp suit, his finger seeking out the tie to straighten it. He just ends up holding on desperate to Eames' collar instead, and his body- good hell, it has a mind of its own- wraps itself around Eames, one of his legs coming up to hook itself around Eames' waist.

Eames is laughing into his mouth, and Arthur- cannot get enough of this, the taste of him, the hint of stubble on his chin, the woody cologne he uses, the smell of leather. One of Eames' hands grips his sore arse, squeezes it. Arthur hadn't known he was capable of making noises like these, and he is _grinding_ forward so hard. It is a completely mindless act, and he _cannot_ stop himself. (It would have been frightening, if he'd been able to think about it.)

Eames somehow turns their bodies around so that Arthur is sitting on his desk- his own goddamn desk, where he _works_, for god's sake, but he's winding his legs around Eames, pulling their groins together so hard it almost hurts, and his hands are scrabbling against Eames' front, and _god_ his buttons are ridiculously small.

"You're not gay, eh?" Eames laughs into his neck, and pulls away suddenly. Arthur stares at him, cock aching, and the loosened muscles of his arse clenched.

"What the fuck." he says.

"We're at work, darling." he said. "It would be completely unprofessional to engage in such a liaison at- work, oh dear, this is where we work, is it not, with all your homophobic colleagues, and everyth- oomph!"

Arthur had lunged at him. "Your stupid, stupid-" Nip at the ear- "idiot- suit-" his neck, yielding under his teeth- "Your fucking tie- is off- you need to fix it-" His collarbones are perfect to teeth, and Eames throws his head back and starts shuddering all over and Arthur presses forth again, ridiculously horny and _wanting_ so much that his arse aches with it. "Your- goddamn- stupid tattoos- need to-"

"Oh god." Eames says, and gives up. "Oh my god, whatever you're on, I need it-"

"Shut up about _needing_- you stupid prick-" Arthur hisses, but there is no rancor in his voice. "You have- no idea-"

"It was your own fault you said no-"

"This stupid- _suit_, fuck," Arthur says. "Oh god. You be quiet now."

They break apart to undo their clothing, respectively, but the little breathing space that ought to kick it into his stupid brain that _they should not be doing this_ just turns into a hungry silence, filled with the clink of belt buckles and the slide of ironed cloth against skin, the rustle of trousers dropping onto the ground. Eames' stare is almost like a physical touch on his skin, and Arthur hooks his thumbs into his boxers and finally hesitates, wondering what the fuck am I doing, because is was naked, he's never been naked with a guy before-

"For god's sake." Eames says, striding forward, broad lines and inked torso and rough, masculine grace, cock unashamedly bobbing as he strides forward. "This place is soundproof, isn't it?"

"Hardly." Arthur says.

Eames wears a wicked look on his face. "Better be quiet, then?"

Arthur thinks of last night, and cannot say he has confidence in himself. "Um, I-"

Eames is picking up his tie.

Arthur blinks. Swallows.

Eames doesn't pull that movie tie-it-around-your-head-to-cross-the-mouth nonsense they pull in movies, because it doesn't work, and he knows it. He stuffs the expensive fabric full into Arthur's mouth, and he doesn't protest, wets the silk with his tongue as Eames pulls down his boxers and fingers him, his fingers slick. Arthur hasn't even noticed him applying the lubricant- he is quick. The cloth breaks his moan.

"Still loud." Eames says. "Better be quiet, love, it's not my reputation at stake-" blunt fingers rake against what Arthur's taking to call _that spot,_ and fire arcs up his spine, and he thrusts his hips back helplessly. "Mm. You're loose. Had fun last night?"

Arthur can't curse at him. Instead he grinds his hips down onto those digits, and it's hurting again, but it's also very very good. He might actually enjoy this, he thinks, because- the obligation to protest has been lifted-

The next thrust up removes all psychoanalysis from his head.

"You're wide open." Eames murmurs in his ear, his enunciation deliberate, still stuck in BBC mode. "Oh god, you're as loose as a whore down there- I don't even need to stretch you out, what did you do last night-"

Arthur shudders helplessly, pressing himself against frustratingly motionless fingers.

"Did you think of me?" Eames says, and Arthur can't tell if he knows or not, but he's gone rock hard, so much it hurts. Eames probably notices, with his hand trailing up and down his abdomen, lightly enough to tickle. Arthur's flesh shudders under the grazing touch. "Did you regret not taking my number, did you imagine it was me fucking you up your arse-"

The fingers slip out, and Eames positions himself. Arthur throws his head back and moves back, bearing down. Eames is laughing in his ear, not quite mocking but definitely a little amused. Arthur thinks of last night, vengefully, and clenches, a long ripple of muscles that seems not to clench just his anus but his entire body, because he wants to make Eames cry out.

He doesn't, but there's an unpracticed hitch in his breathing and a sharp pressure at his pelvis- short nails grinding down- and Eames thrusts forward, one jerky little motion that's driven by one hundred percent lust and not one iota of calculation. "Oh god." Eames said. "You evil bugger- don't do that, I'm going to-"

Arthur wishes he could see his own face now, knows it would be self-satisfied. He clenched again, the same hot spasmodic ripple that seems to involve his entire body, even his throat, and Eames makes an uncontrolled little sound, _ohgod_. Arthur's fisting himself, Eames' hand wrapped around his own, and- it's more than the joy of being touched and fucked, it's the sheer delight of knowing that he's making this man- sound like this, move like this, breathe like this-

He's coming, and he clenches again, all of his body, his toes, his anus, his stomach, his throat, everywhere, and Eames is biting into his shoulder, his tongue a cool liquid point against his sweaty skin. Eames thumbs his slit as he comes, smearing the semen around the head of his cock. Then, with one long thrust that nearly makes them both topple, he comes as well, gasping into his ear _you're beautiful._

Arthur can't hold himself up anymore. His knees buckle, and Eames wraps his arms around his waist as he backs out, spent cock pulling out in one liquid slide. The lube they used, as well as semen, drips down Arthur's thighs.

He's aware that the tie is drenched, and some saliva is trickling down his chin. He wipes it away and removes the tie. It's absolutely ruined.

Eames is laughing, sprawled on the floor, "Oh god, that tie."

Arthur's cheeks burn. "I'll buy you a new one," he says, kneeling on the floor, naked, legs smeared with fluids, looking ridiculous. "Um."

Eames walks to his crumpled heap of clothes, and Arthur follows the line of his spine, from the back of his neck to the hollow of his back. He swallows, sated and appreciative, as Eames bends down to rifle through his own pockets. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"Ah-ha." Eames murmurs, and tosses him something that doesn't toss very well, and it lands a few feet away. Arthur reaches out for it, aware that Eames is looking at the way his body arches out with a little smile on his face. He tries to ignore it, and focuses on the ecru cardboard square he's just picked up.

Eames' card.

"Bout time you had my number, anyway." Eames says, shrugging on his shirt again. Arthur can't bear to be undressed while Eames is clothes, so he instantly moves towards his own heap and hurriedly dresses himself like it's a race. After pulling on his loafers he catches Eames giving him a bemused, slightly humorous expression.

The reality of what they've just done hits him. They had sex. _In his office_. This is ludicrous. Arthur simply does not do things like these. "I," he starts. "Shouldn't have- done that."

He stares at the ground.

"Good lord, this talk." Eames says, flinging himself into the couch, looking utterly debauched. His collar is missing a button, and the ripped stitches are very obvious without a tie to cover it. Arthur doesn't remember doing that. "Responsibility. Heterosexuality. Professionalism. Gah."

"Nonetheless." Arthur says. "We are here to fulfill a business contract, and it was extremely frivolous of me to, to, behave in such a gratuitous, unprofessional way-" and his tongue tripped over himself and he said, "-and it's your fault for being so damned- well put together, for heaven's sake."

Eames' face splits into a wide grin. "Well put together?"

"Oh hell." Arthur says. His bloody mouth. "No. I mean."

"Well, thank you for the compliment. I don't think I've quite heard _that _one before- but you can't get out it, darling, you still owe me a new tie." Eames says. "There's a mall downtown."

"I know, I live here." Arthur snaps.

"And a rather nice sushi place nearby, a little out of the way, guy named Saito opened it- you know him? He owns the shop I met you in, too."

"You're getting at." Arthur says. He meant to say _w__hat are you getting at_, but it seems too late, because Eames is looking at it, and good lord, if wolves could have blue eyes- "Oh, I-"

_Am a professional, and so are you, and we should end this ridiculous liaison immediately, because now we're an hour behind on schedule and besides, I don't need to go shopping with you to buy a tie, and I hate sushi- no, I love sushi, but I hate sushi, be quiet, and anyways, we should both shut up about this and- and you forget that you recommended me a sex toy in a shop yesterday, or I'll do something terrible to you, something- I'll take hold of your shirt and see how many more buttons I can desecrate-_

"Yes, I suppose." he says.

Eames' smile is brilliant.


End file.
